


The Gates of Summer

by Life_giver



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_giver/pseuds/Life_giver
Summary: The remnants of Gondolin lingered in Rivendell, like autumn leaves that didn’t realize they were dead and would be swept away soon by some coming wind. They never spoke of that white city aloud any longer, it was something to be buried and forgotten amongst the ash.“I would know your dreams and if they are as dark as mine I would take them from you.”





	The Gates of Summer

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes a certain scent or a color or a sound would jog a memory of what had been _before_. That was perhaps where his interest had begun, in a color he couldn’t quite distinguish. He had eyes like the darkest midnight, where no stars dared to show themselves. He’d seen a night like that once before, but had never seen eyes like that, too deep to look into for fear of falling in and finding no way out. The eyes mirrored the hair the elf kept plaited and away from the business of his elegant hands, the sleeves of his black robes pushed away to aide him. He was a shadow drifting through the library, dressed in mourning clothes centuries late.

Glorfindel leaned against the open window beside him and waited to be noticed. The elf took his time, fingers drifting against the old cracking leather spines of the books, before picking one and laying it against the desk that had been pushed against the open window. Even then, it was as if the elf couldn’t see him, as if he’d remained a ghost in Mandos’ hall after all. It had been that way for weeks. The elf kept his gaze down, and when he did look up from his feet, his dark eyes passed over Glorfindel and found something more interesting to look at.

The softest breath escaped the elf’s lips as he turned the pages of the old book carefully with long, pale fingers, searching for something until Glorfindel politely cleared his throat. The elf didn’t startle, he knew Glorfindel had been standing there for some time now. His fingers let the page flutter back down and ever so slowly, his dark eyes turned up without straightening his tall form. There was a question in his soft face that Glorfindel wasn’t sure how to answer though he’d been rehearsing it while watching a shadow drifting amongst the books.

“I need a book,” He finally uttered and the elf finally did stand up to his full height which was only an inch short of his own impressive height. Though this dark shadow was willowy, used to working in the stacks of a library at the hand of Lord Elrond, not the type of body Glorfindel had built over the centuries, lugging a sword around on horseback.

“What type of book?” The simple question slipped out in a voice that was soft, a bit husky so that it brushed the senses lightly, made a person listen closely. Glorfindel’s brow creased as his gaze flitted away from those hard black eyes and raked over the stacks of books, searching for an answer.

“The history of Gondolin,” He said in a rush of breath and then clenched his jaw at the sharp sensation that always went through him at the mention of the city he had grown up in. When his gaze ventured back, the elf’s face remained unchanged, but he stood quietly, gaze flitting over Glorfindel’s face as if he’d caught onto his ruse. Or maybe he was just wondering why someone who had died in that city would want to revisit it in a dusty book.

“A heavy read,” The shadow murmured softly and bent his head as he turned away and disappeared into the winding stacks of books.

Glorfindel was left to wait for him, fingers curling against the windowsill anxiously. When the elf came back, he had cradled closely in his arms a heavy book that looked older than the one he had set against the desk. He held it to his chest as if it were a small child, very carefully. He stood before Glorfindel, dark eyes turned up, and then at last he held out the book to him like an offering. Glorfindel nodded and took the book, a question sitting against his lips, but the elf was already turning away, closing the door between them as quietly as Glorfindel had opened it.

 

      

 

The leaves turned red as fall swept the valley, drifting to the stone pathways, offerings of a dying summer underfoot. The crunch of the leaves beneath his boots was comforting as he lunged forward and was blocked by a sword striking his own. He was pushed back by brute force, his partner an elf with a century on him. He slid in the fallen leaves and steadied himself with a hand on the stone pillar beside him.

Amongst the deep red blood of the leaves, a shadow crossed the arched bridge beside the open pavilion he’d been practicing in. He feigned exhaustion, hand pressed to his side as his gaze followed the dark figure. The image was so striking, black against blood, that his breath lodged in his throat. A memory threatened to claw its way to the surface of his mind, something lost in the depths of Mandos’ hall but Erestor was over the bridge in a moment, robes drifting amongst the fallen leaves, and then gone.

He was those fragments of memory left to Glorfindel, here one moment, drifting away the next, never staying long enough for him to grab hold of. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, sword arm dropping, steel scraping stone. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder, but he only shook his head at the comfort.

“It comes in waves,” He said softly, fingers curling against his temple. His mind was like the seas of Ulmo in a rage. Nothing calmed those wild storms when they emerged, and when his thoughts were a placid lake, it only took a shadow to bring on the waves again. He let his sword drop, the ring of it bringing looks of concern his way. Whispers followed him inside, musings of his bad mood. Mandos hadn’t sent him back quite right, he was still only half alive, living in dreams and memories, fire and smoke and blood. He was no longer that laughing boy with the golden hair, swinging a sword and dreaming of the day he would one day go to battle.

 

 

 

“Glorfindel of the Golden Flower,” The name was said with warm affection as a toast was raised around the long table.

Winter had been quick and brutal, killing everything in its path beneath a heavy fall of snow. It had ushered in a muggy summer, and the heat now made everyone lazy. It was a summer night in which robes had been discarded, sleeves rolled up, feet bare against the warm stone as they were meant to be. Across the table only one still wore a robe, creeping high against a pale neck. He wore his grief like some wore jewels, he seemed almost proud of it.

Erestor was always out of place in this sticky sweet heat while Glorfindel had always thrived when the sun was highest in the sky. His mother had called him her little golden sun, framing his face with her soft hands as they stood on the white stone pathways of Gondolin. If he was the sun, then Erestor was the blackest of nights. He was winter incarnate.

He raised his glass flute to his lips and drank the sweet honeyed wine. Summer settled on his tongue as he watched Erestor across the table, going through the motions of living. He felt his heart trip a beat when a small smile tilted at the corner of Erestor’s lips. It was perhaps the first smile he’d ever seen from him. It transformed the pale ice of his face, lent it a beautiful tranquility that was absent in the face of that winter chill. A little color flushed against Erestor’s cheeks as he raised his own flute and drank deeply to Glorfindel’s toast.

He wanted to walk over, saw himself standing from the table, speaking words that weren’t hushed and stunted in a dusty library. And yet his limbs wouldn’t move, and he remained sitting, toasting to other lords and houses and seasons. Elves loved a good toast even if it held no real meaning behind it. Maybe they just loved their wine. Each time his flute was refilled, he drank and watched as Erestor mirrored the motions until his face was thoroughly warmed and no longer a grieving mummers’ mask. He saw for a moment, Erestor in his heavy black robes, making treks in the deep snow, on his way to some appointment, a muted painting, eerily beautiful.

Perhaps the wine had made him bold but when the dinner was through and the table dispersed, he made his excuses and followed a trail of black robes through the long twisting pathways of Lord Elrond’s halls. He stopped his retreat on the bridge he’d seen bathed in blood during the cusp of autumn. He caught the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and there was no surprise in the black gaze that turned on him. Erestor’s face was ghostly in the moonlight and he felt his heart trying to thunder its way from his hollow chest.

“I left your book on the desk in the library,” He said, his voice hushed as if they were indeed back in that twisting maze of leather bound history.

Erestor’s gaze seemed to hold him immobile, reaching inside and searching for that part of him he had been trying to hide from the others drifting around this hidden valley, admirers that only guessed at what had dealt him his heavy fate. Erestor reached out and he kept himself still as fingers touched the strands of his hair, loose from their usual heavy braid, threaded through it gently as if they were lovers meeting under the moonlight in a fated pattern.

“The Golden Lord,” Erestor said. “I heard the gold was burned away in the clutch of the beast’s claws,” He let his fingers twine around the strands of his hair, making lazy patterns. The words were like a sword thrust into his ribs, a killing blow. That same soft, thoughtful smile graced Erestor’s lips again. He hadn’t meant his words to hurt. “You were like a beacon in the drifting smoke. I can see you even now. I was only a child.”

Ah, and so there it was. The shadow had broken through the fog of his memories, pulled out his beating heart, still bleeding, to examine with curious fingers. They had once met in a field of blood, the screams of dying souls all around them. One had worn wet tracks of soot on their face, the other had been holding a gleaming sword on high, leading an exodus through the mountain.

“I thought I would die that night,” Erestor said, his voice trembling on the still air. When he lifted his eyes, darkness rushed in and Glorfindel  heard the screaming again, the smell of burned flesh. “Perhaps I did.” He let the golden strands fall from his fingers to settle back against a wildly beating heart.

“I saw you falling,” Erestor’s words were still soft as if he were speaking to himself, brow creased. “It was almost beautiful, fire streaking down the mountain, your sword like a spear of light when it dealt the killing strike. I’ll never forget that...or the screams of grief when you went down that black chasm after the fire.” He shook his head. It was the most words Glorfindel had ever heard him speak, even while walking the halls beside Lord Elrond, quill tapping parchment.

“Many were saved that night.” He seemed to want to say something else, but he looked away again as if he’d already said too much.

The remnants of Gondolin lingered in Rivendell, like autumn leaves that didn’t realize they were dead and would be swept away soon by some coming wind. They never spoke of that white city aloud any longer, it was something to be buried and forgotten amongst the ash.

And yet Erestor had broken that silence. Erestor turned to leave but Glorfindel found his hand reaching out, touching a pale wrist and turning it up. He pressed his thumb again the flesh just to feel the beating of blood beneath, to know that Erestor had indeed fled the mountain alive and wasn’t just a ghost walking Lord Elrond’s halls.

Erestor’s lips turned up and then he slipped his hand free. He had unplaited his hair for the festivities, an uncharacteristically vain gesture, better suited to Glorfindel. Something tripped in his chest as the wind played with the black river falling down his back as Erestor left him on the bridge. With that one gesture, he’d started a dance.

 

 

 

He remembered the steps of that age old dance from another life, but he wasn’t sure if his feet would step gracefully. The wind made shapes from the billowing silk curtains hanging all around the pavilion. He pushed them aside, following the sounds of a harp being tuned near the fountains down below.

The midsummer festival was well underway with the feast of Tarnin Austa. The sun would be rising within the hour, but until then, silence reigned. The hush was unearthly. He found Erestor by the fountains, watching, waiting as the last stars winked from the lightening sky. The Gates of Summer had been greatly celebrated in Gondolin and he knew that Erestor was thinking of those white halls with his face turned to the pinking sky. He stood near, his face turned up as well until he saw the golden disk rising from the mountains beyond.

For a moment, he watched the light touching Erestor’s face, turning it from silver to golden and then the singing began all around him, breaking their silent midnight vigil. Erestor’s lips moved slowly, and softly he heard him singing words out of sync with the rest of the rising voices and his heart tripped on itself. He was singing the ancient ballad of Gondolin. He moved to sit beside Erestor on the lip of the fountain, feeling the cool spray against his bare arm and listened to the words he hadn’t heard since he had wandered the halls of the dead.

When the sun was over the mountains, Erestor’s soft voice faded away but the words lingered in Glorfindel’s chest, flooding his veins with memories he’d thought lost forever. When Erestor turned his head, he noticed that his face was damp and his brow was creased.

“The sun feels wonderous,” He murmured as if waking from a dream, as if he’d been sleepwalking for a century and had only now just opened his eyes.

“It does,” Glorfindel agreed with a small smile. It was a curious feeling between them, the normalcy of a few words spoken, the hint of a smile at the corner of a mouth usually downturned.

 

 

 

It was such a small detail, Glorfindel almost missed it. Two buttons undone at the throat, revealing glimpses of smooth skin with the turn of a head. A silver chain had been hidden beneath the neck of the dark robe, worn in secret. He longed to pull it from the neck of Erestor’s robe and lay it in his palm. He knew what he would find, the emblem of Erestor’s house, now turned to ashes like all the rest. It was not quite an invitation to pry, only a nod to Glorfindel’s ever present curiosity. Their dance was delicate, with too many intricacies, but he wanted nothing else in this new life he’d been given.

“What did you learn in your studies?” Erestor wondered, dark eyes cast down, moving gently along the words in the book open between them. He had begun to spend his time amongst dead histories, had read from the beginning of Arda to the present and back again. Erestor surely knew why.

“It’s all a circle that repeats itself over and over again,” Glorfindel said and Erestor’s gaze flickered up and stayed on him, pulling him in sharply.

“That is why we keep these records,” Erestor said with a small tilt of the head. His hair was unbound again, curled in a black pool against the table. To look at it, sent Glorfindel’s skin afire, something else Erestor must know. He knew so much, and yet his words were sparse.

With others his own words fell from his mouth in a laughing rush to keep up the ruse of the beloved Golden Lord of Gondolin. With Erestor he had learned to honor the silence between them. These quiet hours between them struck him as more genuine, rooted in reality. There was no need for a useless tumble of words or forced laughter with Erestor. It was in the eyes and the glimpses of skin and the unbound hair. Desire burned hotter than midsummer here in this dusty library.

“To repeat our mistakes eternally?”

“To learn to take heed.”

He felt he’d been rapped sharply on his knuckles as Erestor’s gaze dropped back down to the book and he continued reading as if Glorfindel wasn’t there any longer. For a moment his fingers pulled at the collar of his robe, loosening it a bit more for Glorfindel’s eyes, but he said nothing else.

Had he been a shrouded shadow as a child in that white city, or had its fall shaped him? Death had shaped Glorfindel. Sometimes in the night he would grab the skin of his arm between his nails, wondering at the feel of it, if this new skin that had been reshaped was himself or something else altogether. He felt lost, and he wanted to say so, but perhaps Erestor knew that too.

 

 

 

It was the dead of night when there came a knock on his chamber door. A letter was placed into his hand, the messenger bowing his way out with bent head and downcast eyes. The way he wouldn’t meet Glorfindel’s eyes told a story he wondered at. He broke the seal of Lord Elrond’s house, noting how fine the parchment was, how perfect the penmanship flowed. The letter asked his presence and he understood at once, the flush of the messenger’s cheeks, the awkwardness of his departure.

He took the winding stairs to the topmost floors of Lord Elrond’s halls. The chambers opened out onto a ledge where one of the great waterfalls of the valley fell down into the river below. He walked to the balcony and peered down at the rushing water for a moment, enjoying the cool breeze of the evening. Overhead a sickle moon hung, bright against the dark velvet of the sky. Hanging lamps flickered with light on the railing and he passed his hand over them thoughtfully. The location was beautiful, one could look out over the entire valley from this point.

Lord Elrond had given over the best chambers to his closest advisor and Glorfindel knew why. It was Erestor who whispered into Elrond’s ear, moved his hand on a number of matters, his council was precious. He pushed himself away from the railing and knocked on the chamber doors. When it did not open to him and no answer came from behind those closed doors, he opened them himself and drifted through the empty rooms one by one.

He hadn’t expected a greeting, and his eyes complacently passed over the untouched dinner sitting on a table in the bedroom, a glass of sweet wine half drunk beside the plate. There would be no soft words over dinner or drink. The candles had long been extinguished, the chambers cold. He could hear a fount running beyond the bedroom and peered around the partially opened door. His breath stuck in his throat as dark eyes greeted him. Erestor’s bare arms were crossed on the edge of a stone bathing pool, the fount running from a stone woman with a tipped bowl behind him. Erestor’s chin rested on his crossed arms and he moved not a muscle, only his eyes shifted, following Glorfindel’s slow entrance. He lingered just inside, wondering at the invitation, the state of affairs he’d walked into.

“Tell me,” Erestor said softly. “What do you dream of?”

Glorfindel’s brow creased as he stepped further into the warm room. Erestor’s skin glistened in the flickering light of a dozen candles scattered throughout the room. The black of his hair clung to his bare neck and collarbone like the shroud of his robes. It was the most skin he’d ever shown Glorfindel but still it was only enough to tease his senses. Erestor rose a hand and settled his chin in  his cupped palm, waiting for him to speak. He was good at speaking when prompted.

“It’s all fire and smoke,” He admitted as he sat down at the edge of the stone pool, leaving a span of empty space between them, room enough to talk, another invitation he grabbed at greedily with desperate hands. Erestor nodded solemnly and reached out a hand. Glorfindel started at the touch of damp skin against him, the feel of long, slender fingers, used to holding a quill, curling around his sword roughened hands. Mandos hadn’t erased the long years of sword work from his body, he’d left him exactly as he had been before the fire had engulfed him.

“I dream of falling.”

“I dream of melting gold,” Erestor murmured, his fingers turning his hand, examining it as Glorfindel had done to his wrist on the bridge. The warmth of the bath cocooned him and he closed his eyes for a moment as Erestor threaded their fingers together, connecting their separate bodies for a breath and then pulling away and leaving him cold again. “-And of running. It’s stayed with me for centuries. I walk the halls when sleep eludes me, trying to choke down the smell of smoke.” He pushed himself away from the ledge and for a moment Glorfindel caught the emblem glinting silver against his collarbone, a crescent moon surrounded by creeping vines.

Elrond was a kinsman to Erestor, and the same half-elven blood flowed through Erestor’s veins, a connection he should have made long ago. Had he accepted the bittersweet gift of men or walked the path he himself had taken? He realized as Erestor smiled gently, fingers picking up the crescent moon and curling over it, that perhaps he had grown tired of walking in nightmares. The breath left him in a rush of sadness. The moon was already waning.

“I should have taken the same path,” He found himself saying as the moon settled back against a damp collarbone and the steam of the water drifted against his cheeks like the kiss he yearned for.

“Mandos would not have made a mistake.” Erestor said. “He has judged you worthy of life for all the lives you kept from him.”

“If only it were so simple.”

“I would know your dreams and if they are as dark as mine I would take them from you,” Erestor said so softly, he almost missed the words, and Glorfindel strained towards that rare tenderness, like a moth to light, found himself moving closer, but already Erestor was turning his back on him.

His lips caught the curve of a shoulder and Erestor tilted his head to the side, wet curtain of hair shifting with the movement. A sigh escaped from his parted lips, hand sliding against Glorfindel’s cheek and into his hair, curling around gold tightly, pulling him closer, a promise of passion. Breath shuddered out of him as his lips slid against the gentle curve of his neck, caught the edge of his soft jaw. The smell of lavender hung in the air heavily as he was denied his kiss with a turn of a head. Only a taste and when he looked up through the billowing curtains of the open window beside the bath, he noticed the clouds had buried the moon in shadow, and with it, his desire.

 

 

 

“What did you mean when you said you would take my dreams from me?” He wondered as he walked the forest paths slowly. Beside him Erestor had discarded his outer robe, his mourning garb, his tunic open at the neck, a playful jest as spring filled the air. It was the time of lovers. He remembered the taste of that warm skin against his lips.

“Sometimes I wonder if you know you are a legend,” Erestor said quietly, fingers caressing the neck of his tunic thoughtfully. “You hear it told, sung at the feasts, your name on tongues that were only a thought when you slew the beast. But you appear deaf to those ballads, turning your face away from any word of Gondolin or your deeds,” Glorfindel was quiet, for a time, the only sound the tapping of their boots on the stone pavement. He couldn’t expect anyone to know the path he’d taken, and what uneven terrain it had been. Speaking it aloud brought the memories closer.

“You were one of the first to kill such a beast,” He said softer, and when Glorfindel turned his gaze, he found fire in those dark eyes, as if he were seeing again that fiery death, but also, something else he couldn’t quite pick from those black depths. “I wept for you every day though I did not know you. You stayed here for a very long time,” A curled fist was pressed to Erestor’s chest with a deep inhalation. “I would take that darkness you carry and carry it for myself. My path will end one day, yours will not. You needn’t wander the halls of Mandos forever-”

It was as if the fiery beast of the mountain had taken him over. In a moment he had Erestor’s back against a tree, his hands threaded in that long fall of black silk, his face turned up, their lips pressed together. He kissed Erestor slowly, savoring the way he seemed to melt into him, fingers against his warm cheeks, the taste of fruit on his tongue.

Erestor released a shuddering breath when he pulled away from his stolen kiss, black gaze shifting over his face, searching, always searching. His cheeks were tinged pink, flushed with desire. He didn’t need songs sung of his deeds. He had paid for his bravery with fire and had been rewarded with a life filled with dark shadows, memories that burned him like the breath of the beast that had killed him.

The only reprieve was that someone else shared his secret, someone who so easily reached inside of him and took hold of his pain. He’d first thought it was what everyone tried to do, pull stories from him in an attempt to know him, but Erestor had been trying to tug that darkness from him and crush it underhand. Glorfindel curled Erestor’s fingers into his palm and laid that fist over his  quickly beating heart. Did he know that his hands moved mountains of their own?

“I feel like that night,” Erestor whispered. “When the smoke filled my lungs and I could hardly take a breath-” And so he stole his breath from him once more, unable to reel in that long simmering lust. His steps were becoming clumsy but neither of them seemed to mind. It was as if the shadow begged for his feet to be stepped on. Erestor’s brow knitted and Glorfindel pulled his collar down away from his neck so that his hand could touch the heated skin of his neck as they kissed. He could see no denial sitting on Erestor’s kiss-bruised lips, or the dark gaze that looked up at him expectantly. He could only remember the promise of a hand knotted in the fall of his hair.

 

_“I dream of melting gold.”_

 

 

  
  
Never in either of his lives, the old, and the new, had he ever focused his sole attention on one individual. But Erestor demanded this with his quiet looks and his silent gestures which could all at once be playful or tell a story he would need to decode. He found himself obsessed with a slowly fading shadow, running after it before it disappeared completely.

Winter left no room for playful antics. The bitter cold drew them inside, and Erestor’s neck was once again shrouded in a high collar, a fur lined cloak thrown over his shoulders and brushing his pale cheeks. Glorfindel watched him drawing on gloves carefully, readying for a trip south with the party Lord Elrond had pulled together. Glorfindel was one of them, sitting high on Asfaloth.

He wondered if Erestor felt the cold more keenly for that mortal side of him. His own horse was restless and Erestor glanced at him as Asfaloth shifted. His cheeks were faintly pink from the bitter cold. The glance was brief, but Glorfindel felt his heart take a stumbling beat as it did every time those dark eyes looked at him. He pet his horse’s neck to calm him as he watched Erestor’s straight back, his hair once again plaited carefully, but a ribbon of gold threaded through the stark black braid. The effect was striking, and he knew it meant something, as everything Erestor did had a meaning beneath it. His fingers tightened around the reigns as Erestor gently tapped his own horse’s flank and the party began their slow trek.

He rode behind Erestor the entire journey along the frozen Anduin, hours of watching the gold glint off the fresh, blinding snow, Erestor’s body moving gently with the movements of his horse. Their company passed through the wilderlands quietly and only stopped once night had fallen. Erestor held up a lantern as he dismounted his horse at a small inn. The lantern light swayed in the dark between them as they brought the horses to stable, making shadows on the ground. Not a word of greeting passed Erestor’s lips, but there was a faint smile in the corner of his mouth, a secret only he knew. What was the purpose of that golden ribbon? The thought circled Glorfindel’s mind endlessly. He noticed Erestor’s fingers trembling the slightest as he held the chain to the swaying lantern. He was cold, but too proud to say so. When they parted ways, Glorfindel took the others horses and secured them in the stable so that the party could find rooms.

When he entered the inn, all eyes were fixed to their odd group and it was silent as if a wind had blown their voices away. It was rare to see an elf passing through this way, much less an entire party of them. Usually they would set up great camps, but every once in awhile they would seek out an inn. A man beside him stared unabashedly, liquor dripping down his beard as he clutched his wooden mug until Glorfindel’s blue eyes drifted over him. The man dropped his gaze and the noise around the inn started up again as they each found their rooms.

He had a room on the second floor and he stood looking down the hallway, wondering which room Erestor had taken, when his eyes caught a golden ribbon laying curled on the floor beside a door at the far end. His brow creased as he made his way to the door and caught the ribbon up, fingers threading it slowly, feeling the fine silk texture of it. He knew it was the ribbon Erestor had wound into his braid. A whispered invitation if he’d ever known one. He stared at the door for a long while before pressing the ribbon into a pocket of his tunic and returning to his own room, his heart trying to thunder its way from his chest. In Gondolin, he’d been given invitations nightly, and never shied away from them, but then that had been another life, a corpse hidden in this new body of his.

He sat beside the open window of his bedroom, slouched in a chair, threading the ribbon around and over his fingers slowly. When he brought the ribbon to his nose there was the faint scent of something floral, a garden in this land of ice. He watched snow clouds drifting over the moon for a long while, perhaps hours, wrapping the golden ribbon around his wrist and fingers, his thoughts flitting away from him, only to return more troubled than before. Was this the end of their seasoned dance? In the dead of winter? He tied a small knot in the ribbon and then laid it on the windowsill, wondering if it would be there in the morning when he returned.

He didn’t knock, there was no need to. He was expected. The room seemed empty upon first glance but then the heavy furs on the bed shifted and Erestor sat up, holding the furs at his neck with a pale hand. He had been sleeping, maybe he had thought he wouldn’t come, or had missed the ribbon. Glorfindel stood by the end of the bed, fingers brushing over the rough furs. Gone were the soft light silks of Imladris. The human world was one of hardship and pain. He caught Erestor’s gaze at the thought, a sadness clutching at his sore chest.

“Are you cold?” It was what he’d wanted to ask near the stables.

There was no need for the slight nod of the head, Glorfindel could see it in the flush of his cheeks, in the red of his nose. He would find his fingers frozen beneath the furs. He worked a fire in the grate and pulled more furs onto the bed. He had been used to such rugged living while marching when there had been wars to fight. There hadn’t been silks and other such fine cloth to pull around him in a storm battered tent.

“Do you want to warm me?” Erestor asked softly. The question was bold, a long time coming. He wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden invitation now that he finally had it in hand. Erestor smiled slyly and pulled the furs back a little, eyebrow arching. He began to unbutton his outer tunic slowly, noticing the way Erestor’s gaze flitted, catching on the movement of his fingers, and the flush of his cheeks turned warm, no longer bit by the cold.

A fire roared to life in Glorfindel’s body, hotter than the one behind him, and he tugged his outer and under tunic off roughly and slid beneath the furs, eager to be near Erestor’s warm, bare skin. The sickle moon hung from Erestor’s neck still and Glorfindel reached out, sliding his fingers beneath it and letting it lay against his palm. He could feel the warmth of Erestor’s chest on the back of his hand and suddenly there were lips against his mouth, kissing him heatedly, fingers threading in his hair and pulling a little without warning.

He groaned softly at the unexpected reaction and pulled Erestor closer until they were pressed against one another. He threaded his own hands through Erestor’s long fall of ebon hair, his body thrumming at the feel of it unbound, and his to play with. He had wanted for so long to touch it without any restraint, without secret codes, just bare desire. Erestor’s brow knitted as they kissed, Glorfindel tugging at his hair, pulling him closer against his chest. Long slender fingers slid up the hard expanse of his chest and Erestor pulled back, a lazy smile on his full lips.

“I wondered how you would feel,” Erestor whispered, fingers slipping up the side of his neck. “You’re warm. Like the sun,” He threaded gold between his fingers, his gaze soft and thoughtful. His fingers left raised flesh as he slid them down Glorfindel’s neck, over his shoulders gently, as if he were trying to mold him from clay. Was that what had been done to him? The question was in Erestor’s eyes.

He leaned forward and pressed their lips together again, driving the question from him. Every day he spent on Arda, the memories of Mandos’ halls became fainter. A mist fell over his mind now each time he reached for those memories. Erestor sighed into his mouth, it was a sound of contented pleasure and it sent arousal breaking through him.

“Everything is the same from before I…” The word wouldn’t come. “Fell.” He finished softly.

“Even this?” Erestor wondered, finger tracing a scar against his ribcage. Erestor’s gaze flickered up, finger still brushing over the scar, white against sun-kissed skin, sending a shiver through his body. “In my mind, you were always invincible. A golden light that only ever went out when you fell.” He covered Erestor’s hand with his own, stopping its gentle wandering.

“I became too arrogant,” He murmured.

He felt Erestor’s fingers curl beneath his hand, his brow creasing. He had once walked the stone paths of Gondolin with his chin held high. Nothing could fell him, he had been vain and pompous. The sword cut had been a lesson in humility, but he hadn’t learned until the last burning breath had left his lungs.  His last act of courage had been one of selflessness. That was the reason Mandos had granted him another life, to walk another path on Arda, one less proud.

Erestor dropped his head, the silk of his hair trailing against Glorfindel’s arm as he pressed a kiss to his naked shoulder. They had created a language that needed no words between them. He drew him carefully into his arms, pulling him against his chest.

“They will not sing that you were a coward,” Erestor whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. “That, you never were.” Heat flooded his body at those words and overtook him. He pressed Erestor down to the bed, covering him, kissing him until Erestor shuddered against him, hand knotting in his hair.

“Love me,” Erestor whispered against his lips. That was an easy enough task, he’d been caught under that black gaze since the day Mandos had sent him walking through the gates to Imladris. He knew nothing else.

Heat became a living thing between them as Erestor pushed him onto his back and straddled him and his body became the waters of Ulmo, pulling Glorfindel under, leaving him gasping for breath. His fingers left red tracks against the pale skin of Erestor’s back and Erestor tilted his head, hair brushing Glorfindel’s trembling hands in waves.

His voice was without shame and the walls were thin wood, but Eru Ilúvatar had created them for this, there would never be any shame in the flesh. Pleasure became them. He shuddered, hands sliding over Erestor’s fluid hips, burying his face in a sweat dampened neck, tasting salt and skin, and vain passion.

Erestor covered his body, molten and flushed, no longer the pale moon that had once haunted Glorfindel’s life. He moved with Erestor, pushing into his body deeply, hands sliding up his back, feeling delicate shoulder blades shifting gently with their liquid movements. His hands found their way to every part of Erestor, eager to touch. He felt he’d never get his fill, never get Erestor close enough to him. The fire behind Erestor died down slowly as time passed, unnoticed as they buried themselves in one another, took what they’d been searching for for centuries. The smell of flowers and damp sweat drifted from Erestor’s hair as it brushed his cheek rhythmically, and the pleasure intensified, crested, and flooded his body in waves.

“You feel like fire,” Erestor whispered against the curve of his ear at the last moment, his voice trembling, brittle and on the verge of breaking, his body no longer fluid but a raging storm against him. He had enough fire to give for the both of them and so he did. Glorfindel had lost his voice, fingers digging crescents into Erestor’s thighs. His breath left him too in a rush as Erestor kissed him roughly, his face twisted into something that was on the cusp of grief, but Glorfindel knew it was the most piercing pleasure because he felt it too, connected as they were.

He drove his hips upwards just as teeth sunk into his bottom lip and he finally found his voice again. He gasped, tasting salt and blood on his tongue. It was as if he were falling again in that dark chasm, his lungs filled with fire, but at the last moment, Erestor wrapped his fingers around his golden hair and pulled him up out of that darkness.

Erestor sat back in his lap, holding his burning cheek to a damp chest, their breath labored, ghostly on the air. They were still connected and Glorfindel reveled in the feel, basked in the warmth. The embers in the grate had gone out long before the fire in their bodies. Glorfindel kept his eyes closed, fingers still claws in Erestor’s back, listening to the wild tapping of his heart. It nearly sounded as if a trapped bird were trying to wing its way from his chest.

He started when he heard the rumble of laughter over the fluttering bird, breaking the brittle silence. He looked up to find Erestor’s head tilted back, dark black hair, stuck to his cheek and neck, evidence of a passion untamed and too wild for the both of them, and there was pure, unfiltered joy in his laughter. It reminded Glorfindel of Tarnin Austa and the way it seemed that Erestor had been waking from a dream as the sun rose. He felt it too now, understood that laughter as he pressed his mouth to the hollow of a throat, to the cold sickle moon, and let the sound rush through him.

 

 

 

The snow covered field was as hushed as the human inn had been when they arrived. They were the only living things for miles around, it was all a muted white. Snow had gotten caught in Erestor’s hair, free of its golden ribbon. He had folded that knotted ribbon on itself and it lay in the pocket of his tunic against his heart. He would keep it there for all time if he could.

“Did you dream last night?” Erestor’s soft voice drifted to him.

They had fallen back from the party, enough distance that words could be passed between them quietly. Erestor’s dark gloved hand gently shook the snow from his hair and then he pulled his hair aside. His collar was high, but Glorfindel could still imagine his lips against the skin there. Beneath the collar he would find blood bruises against pale skin. He smiled at the implication of that small gesture, as if Erestor was saying, _“See what you’ve done? Do you remember how it felt?”_ He would always remember that first night even if a dozen came afterwards.

“You took the dreams from me.”

A smile quirked Erestor’s full lips, pleased with himself. He’d seen more smiles from Erestor in the last days than the months they had drifted around one another. “We’ve found a remedy then.” The words brought a flush to Glorfindel’s face. He wasn’t sure of the last time he’d gone red in the face, in this life or the last. The snow that had begun to drift down did nothing to dispel it.

Erestor picked the sickle moon from beneath his collar and pressed it to his lips, hiding his smile. It pierced him deep in the chest, that smile. Glorfindel drew his hood over his hair as the snow began to drift down harder, laughter beginning to bubble up and spill over his lips as it hadn’t for a century. If he’d been in Gondolin, his voice would have rang out over the walls, drifted through the great gardens of that white city, and for the first time, the memory didn’t sting like a sword point.

Erestor rode on ahead, black hair free as the wind picked it up and played with it. His laughter died down as Erestor turned to look over his shoulder at him, strands of hair whipping across his face, his cheeks flushed and alive, no longer pale….no longer a shadow. He watched as Erestor pulled the necklace until it broke free of his neck and with their eyes locked, he dropped the sickle moon in the snow to be buried.

 _Walk with me,_ Erestor’s eyes tempted and Glorfindel put his heel to horse just as the sun began to break through the storm clouds ahead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[A Himitsu- Astray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAzP4WDo0uE&ab_channel=Howl)


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